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Drawing in three deep breaths through my nose, then releasing them through pursed lips, I could feel the tension from last night starting to ease away from my shoulders and neck. I rarely used music or chanting. I simply let the sounds of the lake and nature take me to that serene place where—
“Basky, dude, you awake?” Liam called after scratching at the door. I opened one eye, rolled it hard, and then closed it. Maybe he would think I was still asleep and go away. My head was a foggy mess, the paths that I’d walked for so long now shrouded in thick mist. Marcus Newley wasn’t the bigoted jerk that I’d thought he had been for several years. I’d spent so long being certain that the man was anti-Asian, or anti-queer people, that it had grown into a sort of disgusting but comforting alien life form that I’d formed a bizarre symbiotic relationship with which was giving me the shivers just thinking of but yet…yeah, it was sort of the truth. Only the alien life form wasn’t trying to take over the Federation like in the “Conspiracy” episode of Star Trek: TNG. “Basky, hey, man, we have to dip pretty soon.”
“Dude, chill. Give me like ten minutes here,” I called out, eyes squeezed shut.
“Okay, cool, but check the blogs when you’re spanking off,” he replied and then left, the floor creaking as he pit-patted out to the kitchen.
The blogs. Great. What the hell was the local sporting press and bloggers on about today? Seriously, if they were riding my ass about one stupid preseason loss, I was going to…
Nope, stop. Focus. Relax. Inhale and exhale. Find your breath. Locate the core of your mindfulness and embrace it. What the shit were the bloggers saying?
“Damn it,” I huffed, totally unable to recenter. Opening my eyes, I unfolded my legs, stepped into some shorts, and went to join my roommate in the kitchen. I’d find my Zen tonight. Right now, I needed to know what was going on in our village. Scanning through my social media, I found one small mention of my name that was linked to Marcus Newley and that was it.
My roommate was rummaging through boxes of coffee pods, his back to me. His blond hair was a mess, his sleep shorts and tee wrinkled as hell, and his feet bared. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard me open the dishwasher to get a mug.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” Liam said as he dropped a pod into the Keurig and then hit the mongo size cuppa button. The smell of hot chocolate filled the tiny food prep area. I angled around him, my eyes on my phone, and chose a pod of dark roast from the handy pod rack my mother had bought for me last year for Christmas. I drank a lot of coffee as did everyone in my family. I really loved kopi the most but hated dealing with the traditional pot and socks for the beans so I just drank extra dark, mega-caffeine coffee with tons of sugar and canned milk.
“I wasn’t jerking off,” I mumbled as I waited for my turn at the coffeemaker. “What are the bloggers saying? I can’t find anything.” I looked up from Insta and glanced at Liam. He was just removing his mug, so I nudged him aside to get to the coffeemaker. I was not human without coffee, which was why I should have known morning meditation would tank.
“Wait, man, you’re like walking undead until you get that crude oil into you.” He waved his phone under my nose, took my mug and K-cup, and then made my coffee while I read over an article from Milton Sheffield, the sports staffer at the Chemung Challenger over in Horseheads. An old paper, one of the few newspapers still being printed and sold around here, it had a good reputation. Milton was an older guy, an old-time sports beat sort of guy.
I gave the first few paragraphs a fast read, frowned, and glanced at Liam sipping his cocoa as he watched me over his cup, his brows beetled while I began to read out loud.
“Several reputable sources, including this reporter, overheard the Comets goalie saying that he had not only physically outplayed Huda on the ice but had verbally browbeaten the young Asian goalie during their unfortunate time stuck in the hotel elevator.” I threw Liam a tired look. “Why am I always the Asian goalie and not just the goalie?”
“Same reason I’m always the bisexual goalie or Marcus is the Black goalie.”
“It’s so stupid,” I huffed and returned to the article. “The Challenger has reached out to the Gladiators as well as Baskoro Huda for comments. A spokesman for the team replied that they’re thrilled to hear that the players are this fired up for the season and that they encourage each fan to follow their players as they gear up for combat.” I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, this is bullshit.” I handed Liam his phone, my sight latching onto the thin stream of dark as Satan’s butthole coffee dribbled out of the Keurig.
“I know.” No, he didn’t, not really. I’d thought that Marcus and I had reached some kind of accord or something last night. Then the first thing he does when he’s not around me is start being a dick again. “On the upside, everyone in Watkins Glen is hyped about the bad blood between you and Newley. It’s all everyone on the team’s Insta and TikTok are talking about. My dad sent me something from Facebook as well. Everyone is keyed up for the season.”
“Cool,” I muttered, feeling as if I’d just been gut-punched yet again by Marcus Newley. “I’m going to chill on the patio for a bit.”
“You want company?” Liam nudged my shoulder softly with his. I gave him a weak smile.
“No, I’m good. Just need to process.” My friend nodded and took his cocoa to his room where he would probably pull out his yoga mat to work on mindfulness like Coach Miles wanted us to do. Yet here I was, feet cold, standing on my porch overlooking the lake, frothing internally. Steam rose from the warm waters of Seneca Lake as I sipped and mulled over what to do or even how to proceed. A text rolled in, then another, the first from Marlene Blass, the head of Gladiators Public Relations asking me to come to her office after morning skate to discuss the team’s new and inventive plans to stoke interest in the little good-natured rivalry between myself and Marcus. I read over the text several times before replying back with a meek little affirmative. What choice did I have, after all?
The next text was from Marcus. I stared at it blankly. How did he get my number?
First, I got your number from Crispy who got it from Bean. This cool? ~ M
I guess. ~ B
So about the whole browbeaten comment… ~ M
It hurt to think that he’d mouthed off like that right after we had our little détente. My reply was less than kind.
Sounds just like you. ~ B
He was typing immediately. A Great Blue Heron flew past, long legs gliding behind it as it searched for a place to land and fish. This one was possibly migrating.
Come on, man. I’m far too cool to use a word like browbeat. My great-aunt would use it but me? Please. ~ M
I chuckled. Okay, yeah, he had a point. No, it didn’t sound like him. It sounded like someone my parents’ age. It sounded like a middle-aged reporter.
Okay, I guess that’s true although your coolness is up for debate. ~ B
Dude, I am crushed that you would doubt my swagger. ~ M
